Future Written In Blood (Death Note)

Episode 4--B

Investigation, on television, was often too short and sweet. It lasted maybe a week from the start of a case to the end, and that was with serial killings and major cases of the sort that could and did baffle police for years. It was a necessary conceit, Alex thought as they brushed back their hair for a moment, looking in the mirror. They needed to look distinguished and august today, if they were going to talk to a bunch of...or was that not the right tack?

Either way, necessary conceit, but the truth was that most investigations stalled out repeatedly, at least the real puzzlers. Serial Killers became serial killers for a reason (though nobody could know how many people were stopped before they reached the magic number), and so it wasn't dereliction of duty to focus on another murder.

Besides, they had a partner for a reason.

******

Suit and tie. That was the way to go. James Morris looked at the man across from him. "I suspect, sir, that this was an intentional act. The death is too convenient."

Fat, in a blubbery, pale sort of way, the man sitting across from him, Jarrod Jones, was more important than he'd ever be. In theory. In practice he was going to be out of a job before that long.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you're some paranoiac," Jones said, shaking his head, "I'm not going to be cowed by conspiracy theories. Mayor Buford was barely even a friend--"

What an obvious lie, James thought, adjusting his tie to keep his hands from reaching out and using the other man's puce tie as a hangman's noose.

"And so I'm going to move past this. I already have plans to enter private practice. My skills as a lawyer are still sharp, and so I'm not sure what I can really offer you."

"There was a leak of documents on Mayor Buford, were you behind it?"

"Of course not!" Jones looked annoyed, resting his hands on his lap, glancing around his richly appointed office. Whatever his salary was, it was way too high.

"If people keep on dying, could you pressure the police chief into looking into it? Your colleague died of a car crash, and I think it was targeted."

"What? How? He never drove well once in his life, and he rarely wore a seatbelt. Of course the bastard died."

"Mr. Weeks was first. Ash will be next, perhaps. Or perhaps you," James said, "That's not a threat. That's just me being realistic here." He held up his hands, "And I have to ask, are you going to do something about it, something that can help us stop them from killing you, or am I wasting my time? We've been investigating into a murder that seems to kill using heart attacks--"

"Preposterous, get out of my office."

*******

"Hello, ma'am, may I speak with you for a moment?" They asked the woman, an older black woman who lived in the house next door, "It will only take a moment."

Her back was stooped, but her eyes were bright, and after a moment she nodded. They followed her up, adjusting their beard as they went. A bright, silvery beard, short and a little luciferian, to go with the short silver hair. Looks played up with makeup to be fine, but aging. A handsome, dignified man in his fifties, the voice similarly rich and melodious.

She hobbled around her small house, gathering the ingredients for tea, as he looked around. The place smelled faintly of cats, and was dark at places, the lights not adequate for the accumulation of stuff. Quilts, blankets, furniture, sewing machines, books, everything spilled out and around, and so it was hard to find a seat.

This was an entire life compressed into a small space. There was a picture of a husband, a tall, strapping man in the photo, in his forties, his hair short and dark, his features rough. She was probably eighty, ninety. "Thank you, Mrs--?"

"Roads," she said, with the faintest southern accent imaginable. Had she come up from the south, Great Migration? "One moment, I've got to get you tea."

"It's not necessary, ma'am," they said.

"But it is. In this day and age? You be polite, or you be nothing at all." She pottered around the kitchen, moving with the shuffling efficacy of someone who had long since gotten used to her own infirmities, who had come to live with them. She wore thick glasses, which might be a bad sign, but Alex lived in hope.

"I'm Detective Alexander, with the police. On the evening of October 3rd…"

"Oh." She seemed to wilt a little. Mrs. Roads looked at him, adjusting her glasses, "I didn't see much, I usually to go bed early."

"Anything you saw at all would be helpful. We just have a few questions," Alex said.

"Well...one second." The kettle started to boil, and she worked on pouring the tea, her hands shaking now a little bit as they hadn't before.

Finally, she came back with some tea. They grabbed the cup and gave it a sip. It was pretty good, all things considered, and they straightened up a little more when they drank it. They wanted to observe small little details, make a story of her life, because such a life surely had a lot of stories. They also wanted to try some hard tea sometime, it was one thing they'd never attempted, but at the moment they were on the clock, and they were the ones in control.

"So, what did you see that night? Or hear?"

"There were...I looked out the window because I heard a bang. Like a car door slamming shut. And that's what I saw, a car with all the lights on. There was someone in the driver's seat, and then two other people who were stepping out, towards the Lewis place. I know the Mom, she works hard, but she wasn't in right about them."

Alex nodded. She'd been at work. She worked hard hours, the sort of hours that meant her son was on his own quite a lot. "So, did you get a look at the two people?"

"Ohh, no I didn't. I mean, I saw them, but it was really dark and I could barely see anything."

The truth, Alex thought, but they also knew that if they went to the others they'd probably hear the same even from people who had far better eyesight. They'd come prepared, though. They'd brought and examined photos of Smack, Hot Mike, Tyson, and DeVon. "Was one of the boys tall? Like, above six feet?"

DeVon and Hot Mike were both a little over six feet, Tyson was just under, and Smack was a short man.

"Yeah, one of them was tall, the other was...normal I suppose."

Alex sipped some of the tea. "Could you see anything of their hairstyle?"

"No, not really. Nothing stood out, just hair."

Which ruled out Hot Mike, whose 'thing' was the frankly ridiculous (in size and nature, that is) afro he maintained. It was hard to miss, and that was part of his style. People could be remarkably vain...and Alex completely understood it. Which meant that the list was narrowed down to two primary suspects...but that there were three people who were involved.

"Thank you, ma'am, was there anything else you saw?"

"Well, I heard a bang, and then they ran out."

"Ran?" Alex asked.

"Pretty fast. But one of them…"

"Yes?"

"One of the figures seemed to be limping."

Ah. That was actually really, really important. "Thank you for telling me that, ma'am."

"Are you going to find the ones that killed that poor boy? You know he babysat my cats when I went on that vacation, a year or two back. He was a nice boy." She said it softly, with a hint of the kind of sadness that can easily turn weepy.

"I will ma'am, I promise. We are following all available leads. Every bit of evidence brings us closer to the truth."

They stood up, smiling at the woman, and then they left.

*******

"Two fucking days to get all the interviews," James complained, slumped over at his desk, "Two days, and the most I got was out of Abramson. He's a little bit panicky, you know. He's worried, and he was easy to convince that maybe something was going on. Though he was thinking more some sort of vigilante mob. I didn't tell him about the supernatural killer theory."

"I wonder why," Alex said. They were sitting at their own desk, in a professional looking black dress, with a creme jacket and their short hair in something like a bob. "Still, if he's willing to pressure people...that'd be the best choice, wouldn't it?"

"You mean, because you don't think he's actually a target?"

"Well. Yes." Alex said, "As far as it goes, one of the suspects was limping, and we can narrow some of it down. Got two names it could be. Not going to tell Darius either of them, though. Don't need more dead bodies."

"Do you mean to suggest that Darius, a hardened criminal, would try to KILL the people who murdered his lover?" James asked, "Nah, our Darius is the soul of kindness, mercy, and pacifism."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," Alex said.

"And that dress needs stockings," James replied.

They flushed and looked at their legs carefully. Hrm, maybe stockings could have--

They were getting distracted. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm going to talk to him anyways."

"Might want to change up your looks."

"We'll see. It'll take time to get to him."

******

On Saturday, October 23rd, Mr. Jones was eating his early morning breakfast when he choked on a chicken bone. Despite efforts to dislodge it by one of his servants, bad luck on the roads led to no paramedics showing up in time. He was declared Dead On Arrival.

James tweeted Alex to point out that Jarrod Jones had said, in several interviews, that there was no better breakfast in the morning than bone-in fried chicken. Which probably contributed to him being a hugely unhealthy (and just plain huge) man. But it was clear to Alex that this was kill #2. The killer was spacing them out, though even with that space, it would be a little suspicious.

But thus far, the two deaths each relied on characteristics of the person. Mr. Weeks often didn't wear a seatbelt and was known for driving dangerously, with no regard for the speed limits or the basic rules of the road. Mr. Jones ate a lot, was not particularly healthy, and had fried chicken in the morning...so he'd choked to death on a chicken bone.

If so, that meant that the third death, Mr. Ash's, would be soon. But not too soon. Within a few days. Or maybe longer. It was hard to tell, of course. They could clearly time deaths very carefully, and it had to have been a lot of work to know, say, when Mr. Jones would wake up. Or had they learned it through their supernatural power?

Either way, these were concerns they couldn't bring to anyone but their partner.

*******

"Looking fine today. Though, I'd thought you were a dude," Darius said. He was leaning against a wall, and they were both in an alley. But not an alley anywhere near the ghetto. It was outside a pizza place, and Alex was considering grabbing a slice and watching people come in and out. Little Italy, or the area had once been, and it still had plenty of middle-class Italian-Americans, long after that had stopped being a class that was discriminated against.

"I am what I am," Alex said, allowing their voice to lift into a playful falsetto.

"...really." Darius rolled his eyes, "You're as bad as…"

He trailed off, clenching his fists hard. He was dressed up in such a way that he might have, probably did have, weapons on him, and Alex would never be able to tell. There was an advantage to baggy shirts and jeans when it came to hiding something out of the way.

As bad as Rick.

"Oh? Sensitive soul? Appreciated a good musical?"

Darius shrugged, "Appreciated a shit ton of things. He's dead now, and you're comin' here to tell me how it's going."

"I'm coming here to ask if you can look something up without shooting it."

"Maybe, sure."

"Maybe. Sure." Alex raised an eyebrow. "Got more reassurance than that?"

"Fine, whatever. I'll try not to ice anyone."

Alex sighed, "Well, can you look for people in the Bloody Saints who were limping? Without killing them? Because one of the killers was limping when they ran out of the crime scene, and there wasn't a sign of a struggle, so it had to be a pre-existing problem. Find the limper, and that's a third of the people directly responsible."

"There were three killers?"

"Two killers, one getaway driver," Alex admitted, "We're narrowing down who was in charge of the operation, I'll tell you if we learn more...if I can trust you."

"Sure," Darius said with a shrug, "You've done right by me so far, and it don't look like you're gonna back out on this."

"I won't, I promise."

*******

Councilman Ash left office in disgrace, fleeing as fast as he could into public life. He stopped taking calls on Sunday, October 24th.

*******
Alex's next move is… (Choose 1)

[] [Alex] Using leverage from Abraham to try to get something going on an official basis.
[] [Alex] Talking to CIs and others to try to find out who was limping. Darius is looking into it, but perhaps they don't trust him.
[] [Alex] Examining the physical evidence once more.
[] [Alex] Continue looking over GuiltMonger to get a profile of possible targets.
[] [Alex] Talk to Wendell.
[] [Alex] Talk to Rachel.
[] [Alex] Look into the supernatural.

James, meanwhile… (Choose 1)

[] [James] Looks at the physical evidence for Rick's murder.
[] [James] Talks to some of Rachel's friends.
[] [James] Talks to Wendell.
[] [James] Tries to convince Abramson to press harder.
[] [James] Attempts to get in contact with Mr. Ash.
[] [James] Talks to the six members of Mid-Hill High School who were outside the mayor's town hall when he died.

******

A/N: Sorry this is short and a little bit crud, but. It's something. Also, you really are going full-throttle on the Darius-Rick case! It's impressive, your duty towards the innocent. If interesting!